


Trying Not To Love You

by CathrineMcCord



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, BAMF!John, First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post The Great Game, Pre-Slash, confused feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-16
Updated: 2012-03-21
Packaged: 2017-10-27 10:15:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/294624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CathrineMcCord/pseuds/CathrineMcCord
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I need you, Sherlock!”</p><p>Lestrades now blood drenched hands curl around the jacket even more as John presses his lips against Sherlocks for one final blow that looks nothing like mouth-to-mouth resuscitation any more.<br/>__________________________</p><p>John and Sherlock both have to deal with how to go on with each other after the pool incident.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Howl

**Author's Note:**

> "Howl" - Florence and the Machine

**Chapter 1: _Howl_**

 

 _Crash_

 

Body against body.

 

 _Crush_

 

The surface of the pool rattling their bones.

 

 _Pain_

 

Blood all around them in the water.

 

//

 

As the black car pulls up beside Lestrade he first considers showing his Scotland Yard mark.

 

“Get in.”

 

He lets it drop back into his pocket the second he hears the command.

 

There is no space for any compromise.

 

The man appearing besides him as he slides into the back seat has the aura of a very well groomed, but also of a very dangerous animal. He doesn't even bother to introduce himself, but then he certainly doesn't has to. Lestrade knows, sees the strange resemblance, so different in looks but their eyes shimmering with the same bright glow.

 

“I'm afraid my Brother has gotten himself into deep trouble.”

 

Sherlocks Brother announces that so calm, Lestrade simply overlooks the way his hands clinch to his tailored trousers tensely. He is so drawn in by the smell of the brand new leather seats and the perilous authority that lingers in the air.

 

It's only when he gets out of the car to see the remaining pieces of a burning building that he's able to grasp the full meaning of the only sentence spoke inside the car.

 

“Bloody hell … _Sherlock! John!_ ”

 

His breath catches inside his throat for a second and he feels his stomach twitching as behind his inner eye the pictures of the many corpses he's seen mix up with the faces of the worlds only consulting detective and his doctor.

He already hears the sirens in the distance, but he is no man to sit and wait, he just can't, so he is bursting forward over what's left of the walls, trying to catch enough breath to scream the names of the two idiots he's grown so accustomed to.

 

“Lestrade!”

 

His name rips trough the air guiding him to where John is dragging the detective out of the water.

 

Sherlock is hanging limbless from where the doctors arms are wrapped around his torso. As Lestrade sees Johns legs slowly giving in he launches forward to grip the detectives feet. Together they place him carefully on the ground, John immediately sinking to his knees besides Sherlock.

 

“He's not breathing. There is to much water in his lungs.”

 

The doctor states with just a brief look, while striping of his jacket and tossing it at Lestrade who is still standing at Sherlocks feet somewhat startled. He can't help feeling impressed and suddenly very small beside John's calm and focus.

 

“Press that on the bullet wound in his abdomen!”

 

The doctor commands, his voice all the soldier he is, ripping open Sherlocks blood stained shirt. The DI falls to his knees quickly, carefully applying pressure to the now laid open mess of blood.

 

Without further hesitation John tilts the detectives black curled head back to cover his open mouth with his lips.

 

It's not in a tender way like Lestrade imagined all the times he and Sally were quietly joking about them probably snogging each other at home.

 

It's forceful, John blowing air into the mans water filled lungs with all his might.

 

 _Despread_

 

And it's probably an even more intimate moment then picturing them snogging.

 

Lestrades grip tightens around the jacket.

 

After the fifths blow of air John hisses a curse while catching his breath to put his lips to Sherlocks open mouth once more.

 

At the tenths Lestrade stars praying despite not being religious.

 

With the fifteens blow Johns gasp for air resembles a distressed whimper.

 

In the end Lestrade is not sure any more about the exact moment when the doctor loses his calm and focus, but it's probably when after the twenties blow he crashes his hands on Sherlocks chest in complete despair.

 

“ _Sherlock!_ Wake up, for fucks sake! _”_

 

By now Lestrade is sure that he will never forget the look on Johns face for the rest of his life. 

 

“I need you to wake up!!”

 

 __

 _ Pain  _

__

“ _Sherlock!_ ”

 

 

 _Despair_

 

 

“ _I need you, Sherlock!”_

  
Lestrades now blood drenched hands curl around the jacket even more as John presses his lips against Sherlocks for one final blow that looks nothing like mouth-to-mouth resuscitation any more.    


 

The detectives chest finally starts to tremble as his body tries to get rid of the dispensable liquid.

 

More out of pure instinct than practice John flips him over and allows him to cough out the water.

The same moment Lestrade flinches as a barrow drops beside him.

He hasn't noticed the incoming rescue force at all.

The circling helicopter above them is suddenly a loud roar in his ears.

 

Hesitant he tries to get up to allow the medics better access but John grabs his wrist and forces him down again.

 

“Listen closely.”

 

He commands, dragging Lestrade closer to be audible over the now lowering helicopter, while having a final look at Sherlock being carried away.

 

“Sherlocks B-, I'm A+ ...”

 

The DI' can't help but look at him confused.

John continues outright, his voice sounding even more pressed than before.

 

“You have to make sure to tell the medical staff about his drug history, he will have a very high resistance against pain killers! And don't leave him alone, for gods sake don't leave him on his own, it will freak him out! You got that?”

 

“But why are you telling m-”

 

“You got that?!”

 

“Yes, yes I-”

 

A medical officer pulls him up forcefully as a second barrow falls to his feet.

 

When Johns hand slips from his wrist, Lestrade sees in an instant why he told him.

 

The doctors back is covered in so much blood, he can't even tell which colour his shirt originally had.

 

As John tumbles over on the ground he gathers every bit of air that's left in his lungs.

 

“He is A+!”

 

He shouts over the roar of the helicopter as he helps the medical staff drag them away.

 

 


	2. What The Water Gave Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock dosn't wake up alone. It's not making it better though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "What the water gave me" - Florence and the Machine
> 
> (But I was kind of more listening to that song http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hHsnECVc_DE because my flatmate kept playing it non stop!)

 

_**Chapter 2 : What The Water Gave Me** _

 

 

_Breath_

 

The first indication for his waking is the burning ache in what he localised as his chest.

 

_Beep Beep Beep_

 

The second is hearing the steady noise of the heart monitor beside him, hospital then. The noise of someone breathing, the rustle of cloth, a visitor. 

 

_ John _

 

Speaking seems to be out of option. He can feel the edges of the oxygen mask press against his cheeks. 

 

_Blurry_

 

Opening his eyes works. 

 

“Sherlock?”

 

_Wrong_

 

Lestrade comes into view. He is sitting on a run-down chair besides him, cloth and the growth of his beard tell Sherlock he has barely been home for at least two days. 

 

“Sherlock! Thank god!”

 

The DI grabs his hand in a gesture of joy and Sherlock can only do so much as furrow his eyebrows. 

 

“I was so worried, seeing you shot, the blood everywhere, if it hadn't been for John, god knows what would have happe-”

 

Sherlock cuts him off by gripping his hand as forcefully as he can momentary manage. 

 

_ The Pool Moriaty John _

 

Even a slow mind like Lestrades has to understand what he wants. What he needs to know. Suddenly the oxygen mask annoys him like hell, but he can't seem to find the strength to bring his hands anywhere near it to tear it off. 

 

“He is alright. John is alright.”

 

Gladly Lestrade seems to have one of his brighter moments. Looking hat him questioning Sherlock trys to keep him going.

 

But Lestrade stops and draws away his hand from Sherlocks. It joins his other which is playing nervously with the edge of his creased shirt. 

 

“We didn't find Moriaty though. Even your Brother had a look at the sight but there is literally nothing, no sing of him no evidence and … and about John ...”

 

Again Lestrade stops in his tracks. 

 

Sherlock wishes desperately he could shout at him. 

 

_He needs to know_

 

His hands twitch into the direction of the mask.

 

“He … he really lost much blood … um, it seems like something hit his back when he was dragging you into the water, a piece of glass or wood, and it wouldn't have been all that severe if I had just noticed it earlier but he was so caught up in reanimating you I really just didn't notice ... I'm sorry, I'm really sorry Sherlock … he is alright now, he really is, but he lost so much blood the doctors are not sure you know … I mean he … ” 

 

The DI finally finds the courage to look up at die Detective.

 

“... he is just not waking up ...”

 

As the DI stops jet another time Sherlock has already ripped off the oxygen mask subconsciously.

 

“Joh-”

 

He can't quite tell if the burning pain in his chest is the sudden lack of air or … 

 

_BeepBeepBeepBeep_

 

The alarm he triggered sets his thoughts to a hold and the blackness at the corners of his vision pulls him into unconsciousness again. 

 

 

//

 

 

It's surprisingly easy to sneak out of his hospital room. 

 

Thanks to only wearing one of those ridiculous night gowns no one notices him as he makes his way to the ER where he suspects John to be stationed. Lestrade snoring besides him didn't have any obligations either as he transferred the clip from his finger, supposed to measure his heart rate, on the hand of said DI.

 

Sherlocks suspicion on Johns location is correct.

 

He finds him in a little separated room quiet, but still close to the experienced staff of the ER, if some inconvenience should occur.

 

Though the danger of being exposed and dragged back to his room is increasing with every second, the only thing the detective can manage for a long while is standing in the doorway starring at his friend.

 

The doctors stabilized him on his side, obviously to preserve the wound on his back and he was not saved from this ridiculous hospital gown either, the gap of it showing some of the tick bandages underneath. The tubes stuck to his veins lead to IV bags and the wires on his chest to a silently beating heart monitor.

 

_Fragile_

 

Sherlock thinks he looks more pale than he could ever imagine.

 

_Lifeless_

 

Something jumps in the detectives chest.

 

_I'll burn you_

 

“You are Sherlock Holmes ...”

 

_I'll burn the heart out of you_

 

Sherlock looks up in what could somehow be described as startled. 

 

It's only now that he notices the woman sitting besides John, now standing up.

 

_Harriet Watson_

 

He never actually met her. But he doesn't doubt for a second that it's her. Those sandy hair are unmistakable. 

 

“No no, never mind, you don't have to answer me, I heard enough about you to know that you don't actually give a fuck about answering me, I really really heard enough since John would only bloody talk about you _whenever_ he found the decency to talk to me at all!”

 

There is so much anger in Harrys voice, so much disdain in the way she holds her body, not even Sherlock misses the fact that he is unwanted here.

 

His feet doesn't move an inch.

 

Neither does his mouth.

 

He is glued to where he's standing, feeling the cold of the linoleum floor slowly steeping through his bare feet, his eyes darting between John and Harry.

 

“Since I know that _you_ are the one who caused my baby brother to be lying here in bloody _coma_ in the first place, and since I know all that useless stuff John told me about you, I also know that you will bring him into danger again wherever he will be able to endure it or not ...”

 

He forces his mind to listen to her. 

 

He forces himself to feel the sting every word causes in his chest.

 

_Sentiment_

 

“So I have only one thing to say to you. _Piss off!_ ”

 

_Leave his side_

 

Something snaps.

 

_Be left alone_

 

It snaps cutting lose those restrained feelings inside his chest.

 

„I just want to ...“

 

His voice sounds far away to his own ears.

 

_What? Want What?_

 

Asks his mind, but his body is already taking action.

 

Sherlock suddenly feels the floor shift under his feet as he darts forward, feels the warmth as his elbow collides with Harrys chest to shove her out of the way …

 

… he feels the agonising pain rush through his stomach as he puts his body under more stress than it can handle. 

 

And as his feet give away underneath him he feels strong arms holding him up, a touch so familiar, yet more distant then the touch of any stranger.

 

_Mycroft_

 

He hears his voice seconds later, but doesn't understands a word he's saying.

 

His eyes stay fixed on John.

 

Silently Sherlock let's himself be dragged away by the doctors, the guiding presence of his brother never leaving his side.

 

Silently he let's himself drown in the pain, as he watches John slowly fade from his field of vision.

 

He leaves behind an in anger crying Harry.

 

He also leaves behind the sound of Johns heart monitor skipping a beat

 

No one notices.

 

 

//

 

 

“-erlock.”

 

_A Voice_

 

“Wake up.”

 

_Familiar_

 

He blinks, trys to force his eyes open.

 

_Hands_

 

“Sherlock, wake up.”

 

_There but not quite touching_

 

He opens his eyes.

 

_Mycroft again_

 

His first look at his brother is enough to tell that he has not left his side since he dragged him out of Johns room.

 

Only one look at the pressing concern in Mycrofts eyes is making him feel suddenly annoyed.

 

“Get up.”

 

It's a command.

 

Sherlock plays with the thought of disobeying , but then decides that everything getting him out of this bed is acceptable and everyone not treating him like glass welcome, even If it's his brother.

 

He gets up himself, the only attempt of Mycroft to help him is passing him his blue dressing gown, obviously took from his and Johns flat.

 

It smells like home, oddly normal.

 

Sherlock ducks his hands into the pockets as he follows his brother wordlessly. 

This time no one notices them because the elder Holmes doesn't want them to be noticed.

 

“Lestrade took her out for coffee. You have estimated fifteen minutes.”

 

Mycroft leaves him at the sill of Johns room with just that.

 

Deep in the back of his mind Sherlock knows that this is probably the most he will ever get from his brother. 

 

The room in front of him suddenly feels very big, filled only with the frail presence that is John. 

 

_Fifteen minutes and counting_

 

The first step is the hardest, but the steps after that feel way to slow for the pace his mind is racing as he approaches the bed. He thinks about sitting down on the chair Harry has been in for a moment, but than realizes he can't bring himself to move just an inch away now that he is standing close. John looks so awfully pale.

 

_What?_

 

His hand twitches inside his pocket. 

 

_What do you want?_

 

It only takes the fraction of a second to wrap his long fingers around Johns strong ones. And it's way easier than he anticipated.

 

_I'll burn the heart out of you_

 

Sherlock closes his eyes.

 

_I've been reliably informed that I don't have one_

 

His grip on Johns hand tightens softly.

 

_But we both know that's not quite true_

 

He opens his eyes again.

 

_It really isn't_

 

“I'm sorry ...”

 

He isn't sure if he is for all of this, just for what happen or for what he is going to do now. 

 

But he knows that he should be sorry for the fact that he will not be able to let John go. 

 

He will not be able to piss off.

 

Careful not to touch anything else then his hand Sherlock slides on the bed besides John. He makes himself as small as possible, facing his friend.

 

_My Heart_

 

Sherlock drifts to sleep so fast he misses out on John stirring awake besides him.

 

He also misses out on his flatmates relieved smile, the tender look in his eyes and the hands that pull him closer with all the strength they can muster. 

 

 

//

 

 

When Harry finds them lying so close to each other their foreheads are touching, their hands tangled into each others cloth, she just can't bring herself to separate them. 

 

Neither can she bring herself to hate that black haired man that will be the downfall of her brother. 

 

At least not as much as she wants to.

 

Lestrade keeps watch at the door to make sure non of the nurses is going to drag Sherlock back to his room.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, Sorry , Sorry for making you wait so long! But this really was the hardest chapter for me, getting Sherlock right is freaking me out, especially cause I don't know if I got him right all ...
> 
> Thanks to those who stayed with me :)


	3. Never Let Me Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is fine. He really is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Never Let Me Go" - Florence + The Machine

**Chapter 3 :** _**Never Let Me Go** _

 

_Concern_

 

Sherlock hasn't left his side since they got home. 

 

John sights as he sets up the tea.

 

It's not like Sherlock is insisting on following him or that he makes a big fuss about it. 

 

He's just there. 

 

Wherever John goes Sherlock is simply there and if it's something as intimate as having a shower or going to sleep he still has the feeling Sherlock is right outside the door. 

 

_Strange_

 

It upsets him for various reasons. 

 

First, there is the fact that his flatmate is the one who is injured worse. They might have gotten the permission to leave the hospital but he can see Sherlock compress his lips in pain whenever he makes a quick movement. If someone needs following around it's him.

 

This is the other thing that's upsetting John.

 

He doesn't need caring for. 

 

Not that Sherlock really does, it stops at following him around, but still that probably feels more unsettling than if he would offer to do the laundry or something. It feels like he is expecting him to fall down or pass out any second. As if he is expecting him to break. 

 

John can't deal with that. He is alright. He doesn't even have nightmares or anything. He is perfectly fine. They both came out of this alive. They are alright. There is nothing to worry about. He doesn't need following around.

 

But he can't talk to the younger about it. 

 

Not that he hasn't tried, but this is the next unsettling reason. 

 

Every time he finds the right words in his head he is stopped in his tracks, just by looking at Sherlock.

 

There is this look in his eyes.

 

_Undefinable_

 

He has never seen anything like it in the detectives features. 

 

_Emotional_

 

It makes John lose his speech. 

 

_Pressing_

 

The kettle makes a soft  _ click _ as it's boiled. 

 

John takes out two mugs and starts preparing the tea. 

 

Sherlock leans in the door frame watching. 

 

Maybe I should do something, instead of say something, John thinks to himself.

 

But what is there to do? What says, your behaviour is stetting me off?

 

_You daze me_

 

He picks up his own cup and leans against the kitchen counter. He pushes Sherlock's cup in his direction but neither says something nor does something else.

 

Come and get it.

  
_ Come closer _

 

Sherlock certainly understands the hint, but he doesn't move an inch.

 

This is the fourth thing unsettling him. 

 

The detective was never one to stand awfully close or crave any kind of contact, but until now he never had put any kind of effort in keeping his distant either. 

 

But since they arrived home he keeps some kind of self administered space between them, even as he keeps trailing after him.

 

John nods towards the mug. 

 

“Come.”

 

_Closer_

 

His flatmate definitely knows what he's playing at, his chances of success are quite low. 

 

Sherlock sets into motion after what seems like decades.

 

Suddenly John realizes that he doesn't just want the detective to come closer. He needs it. 

 

His chest clenches. 

 

_I need_

 

The younger comes to a halt just a few inches before him.

 

_What do I need?_

 

He doesn't look at the steaming mug besides him at all.

 

His eyes are glued to John's.

 

_Longing_

 

John can't look away. The hot mug in his hands starts to burn his fingertips. 

 

_Dazzling_

 

Sherlock takes it out of his hands and places it back on the counter. He seems a bit startled as their fingers brush against each other. 

 

He steps closer nevertheless.

 

“John ...”

 

It sounds like a plea. What is he asking for?

 

_What do you need?_

 

It doesn't matter.

 

John nods. 

 

I _ 'll give you anything _

 

Sherlock places a hand on the doctors chest.

 

Right above his heart. 

 

His touch is feathery light, his fingertips brushing over the worn out material of Johns t-shirt. 

 

_Strong_

 

He feels his heartbeat. 

 

_Racing_

 

John mirrors Sherlock's movements without wasting a second thought.

 

His hand brushes over his flatmates chest gingerly.

 

_Union_

 

There hearts beat at the same pace. 

 

And then it happens. 

 

_Breathless_

 

Every breath that rises against his outstretched hand turns into a picture of his lips smashed against Sherlock's.

 

The memories break over John faster than he can bear.

 

_I need you!_

 

His own words said in despair crumble in his head as the vivid warmth under his palm starts to resemble the warmth of blood. 

 

_Desperate_

 

John's breath hitches as Sherlock pulls his arms around him. 

 

There are so many things he wants to say as his wet cheeks smear the fabric of his flatmates shirt. 

 

So many things he needs to say.

 

So many things he just discovered. 

 

Nothing comes out.

 

_Broken_

 

Sherlock holds him until he is able to breath normal again.

 

He doesn't say a word as he lets him go, doesn't look at him.

 

After that he stops following him around. At least visibly. 

 

John understands now why he did it in the first place. 

 

Sherlock was waiting for him to break. 

 

John also understands now why he was keeping his distance. 

 

He was afraid of being the reason. 

 

He isn't sure if Sherlock understands why he did all this himself, though.

 

The look in his eyes stays a mystery too.

 

//

 

_Red_

 

Blood

 

_Thin_

 

Breath

 

_Time_

 

Running out

 

_Vital_

 

“SHERLOCK!”

 

John darts up in bed screaming.

 

Only seconds later he is already up, jumping out of his bed and stumbling right into the bathroom.

 

His knees give out right in front of the toilet. 

 

But no matter how sick he feels, he can't even muster the strength to do anything more than gripping to cold toiled seat so that he doesn't collapse right on the spot.

 

He is so tired.

 

_Drained_

 

He is so tired since something deep inside of him broke, those ominous three days ago. 

 

The doctor hasn't really slept since that, his nightmares came back, obviously.

 

Oh god, how he wished they were about the war.

 

But they weren't.

 

They were worse.

 

_I need you, Sherlock!_

 

Yes, something broke. 

 

And he just couldn't tell what, or how to fix it. 

 

He only knew that it would certainly be his end. 

 

When he is certain that he isn't strong enough to empty his stomach he slowly gets up again making his way to the sink. 

 

He turns the water on as cold as possible and splashes it roughly into his face. He doesn't need to waste a second thought on his t-shirt getting wet, since he stopped wearing one as soon as the nightmares started. What's the use if it gets soaked with sweat anyway?

 

As he braces his hands against the cool china of the sink to look at his worn reflection in the mirror, he catches a glimpse of Sherlock for the first time.

 

The detective leans in the doorway, he too is wearing only pyjamas, his hair ruffled. 

 

Right out of bed, John thinks. 

 

They actually haven't spoken one serious word since the little kitchen incident. 

 

Their eyes meet in the mirror. 

 

It's the same look he still can't explain. 

 

_Dazzling_

 

Suddenly John feels terribly exposed. 

 

He turns off the water and prepares to turn around, but is stopped in his tracks.

 

Cool fingers caress his neck.

 

In the few seconds John has taken his eyes of Sherlock the detective has crossed the distance between them. 

 

A shiver runs down his spine. 

 

_Electrifying_

 

He wants to say something.

 

Sherlock's hand wanders down his back.

 

But nothing comes out of his parted lips, except a faint gasp as the fingertips of the detective reach the fresh and ugly scar in the middle of his spine. 

 

John feels his chest clench. 

 

As if one ugly scar wouldn't have been enough. He had to get a second one, of course. 

 

His hands clench around the china until his knuckles turn out white. 

 

_Desperate_

 

Sherlock draws out the outline of the still sore flesh with his fingertips. His movements seem almost gingerly. 

 

With a deep exhale John turns around. 

 

His heart nearly jumps out of his chest as he realizes how close the detective really is standing. 

 

Their chests brush against each other, hot skin against cool fabric.

 

Sherlock hasn't moved his hand and as close as they are, it comes to lie on Johns left shoulder, covering the other part of Johns body that he isn't particularly proud of.

 

The scar that brought them together. 

 

His eyes close nearly automatical.

 

He can still feel a tingling in his spine were the younger's fingers have been just a moment ago.

 

The scar that broke him. 

 

The two scars that meant he had failed. 

 

As his eyes fly open again Sherlock's look seems to pierce right through him.

 

This look. 

 

_Undefinable_

 

John can't look away.

 

_Enigmatic_

 

Not even as cool fingers stroke against his jawline. 

 

_Closer_

 

Not even as two tender hands frame his face. 

 

_I need you_

 

Not even as soft lips brush against his.

 

There is absolutely nothing for a moment.

 

_Breathless_

 

And then he realizes. 

 

_I'll burn you_

 

The part of him broken is his heart. 

 

_I'll burn the heart out of you_

 

John breaks away from Sherlock, eyes wide in realisation. 

 

There are words forming on the detectives lips, but the doctor doesn't hear them.

 

He has already dashed into his room, particularly jumping into his cloth and is out of the flat before Sherlock has turned around.

 

//

 

When John returns nearly two hours later the flat is empty. 

 

Or at least dark and dead silent.

 

He can't quite tell.

 

And he doesn't care either. Not that much.

 

He is tired and cold and he really needs a shower. 

 

Running around London without socks and pyjama pants instead of real trousers isn't exactly healthy.

 

John drags himself up the stairs to the second floor, shedding his cloth while on the way to the sower.

 

As the hot water hits his aching shoulders it feels like all his confusing thoughts are washed down the drain too.

 

He spent almost two hours on figuring out how to fix his heart.

 

Or to find out why it broke with seeing Sherlock bleeding and as good as dead lying at his feet. 

 

Or why Sherlock kissed him. 

 

Why he watches him constantly with this look in his eyes. 

 

In the end he figured he doesn't know. 

 

And Sherlock probably doesn't either. 

 

The only thing that is clear to him, even now as he crawls into his rumpled bed exhausted, is the one thing, that one sentence, that has been running through his head endlessly since the pool. 

 

_I need you_

 

Whatever else there is, however he is going to fix his heart, this one statement is undeniable and utterly true. 

 

The bed sinks in besides him as he has almost drifted into sleep.

 

With his last bit of consciousness John lifts the blanket and Sherlock slides closer, slipping under it as if it was the most natural thing in the world. 

 

“Why did you do it?”

 

John asks as his eyes fall close again. 

 

He doesn't need to say that the question counts for all of it. 

 

Sherlock shrugs besides him. 

 

“I don't know.”

 

He whispers into the dark and it sounds like an apology.

 

John can't fight a smile.

 

Before sleep pulls him in completely he can feel long and cool fingers intertwine with his. 

 

He doesn't have a single nightmare. 

 

When he wakes up in the morning, he thinks that fixing his heart might not be that difficult after all. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh God, I'm soooooo sorry it took so long!  
> It's nearly impossible to get anything done besides uni and there is this big projeckt I'm writing on and and and ... im sorry!
> 
> I hope you enjoy it though :)
> 
> Let me know what you think and what direction you would like to see it go!

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure about the number of upcoming chapters yet, but this will consist of snapshots of Sherlocks and Johns affection for each other building.
> 
> Look forward to hurt/comfort, angst, first kisses, arguments, bathroom scenes and much more ;)
> 
> I'm not native btw, so corrections are welcome!


End file.
